She was too desperate.
“How long since your mother last ate?” he asked quietly.
The girl hesitated, then whispered, almost ashamed.
“Since the men came.”
Rocco’s expression hardened.
“What men?”
The girl glanced around nervously, lowering her voice.
“The men who said Mommy owed them money. They took everything… the couch, our clothes… even my baby brother’s crib.”
Rocco’s jaw tightened.
“Tell me who.”
The girl swallowed.
“It was a man from your gang, sir. Mommy said the mafia took everything from us.”
For a moment, the rain seemed to disappear.
Rocco didn’t move.
Not because he felt guilty—but because someone had dared to use his name… to hurt people who had nothing.
Slowly, he stood.
“Where is your mother?”
“At home,” the girl whispered. “She’s too weak to get up.”
Rocco looked at the rusted bicycle.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, placing them gently into her small hand.
“Get in the car,” he said.
Because whoever had done this…
…was about to understand what real fear meant.
For illustrative purposes only
The drive through the rain was quiet.
The girl—Emma—sat in the passenger seat, holding onto the bicycle handles like they were her lifeline.
“Turn here,” she said softly, pointing toward a narrow street lined with broken streetlights.
The neighborhood looked forgotten.
Cracked sidewalks.
Boarded windows.
A silence that spoke of people who had learned not to ask questions.
Rocco parked in front of a small, worn-down house. The door hung slightly crooked. The windows were dark—no electricity.
Even before stepping out, he could feel the cold emptiness inside.
Emma climbed out slowly.
“She’s probably sleeping,” she said. “It hurts less when you’re asleep.”
Those words hit harder than anything Rocco had heard in years.
“They told Mommy not to tell anyone,” she continued. “But I recognized one of them…”
Rocco crouched down so they were eye level. His voice was calm—too calm.
